


Articulate

by keelywolfe



Category: British Actor RPF, The Hobbit RPF
Genre: Flirting, M/M, PWP, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-26
Updated: 2013-06-26
Packaged: 2017-12-16 07:07:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/859290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keelywolfe/pseuds/keelywolfe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Richard doesn't smoke, really, and Martin can be a terrible brat when he wants something.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Articulate

**Author's Note:**

> Just having some fun!

* * *

The thing was, Richard didn't smoke. 

Honestly, he didn't, not for a very long time. He'd quit years ago but there were times, days like today, when he was sweaty and tired and unable to itch at his wig, rare times of exhausted weakness when he'd wheedle a fag off someone. Shuffle off away from the noise and crowd and equipment, sit down and lean, no, practically fall against a tree before finally using his cheap, borrowed plastic lighter to light his one stolen cigarette.

It was awful, in a way, how the very first inhalation drew the knotted tension in his chest and temples away, drugging him with nicotine and poison. The tip glowed red as a coal when he took another drag, filling his lungs with hot, bitter smoke.

Drowsy as he was, stretched to his very limits, Richard was still conscientious enough to let his head droop forward rather than back, careful to keep the wig away from the rough bark. Keeping the lit end away from his clothes was automatic; the people from wardrobe would eat him alive if he burned a hole in anything. 

The numb bliss of it passed entirely too quickly and Richard was already feeling the heat against his fingers when someone plucked it away, leaving his fingers grasping at air. All right, he was honestly a bit too sleepy to be smoking, but that was right rude and he was about to say so. Only to have any words stolen in a huff of air as someone dropped heavily into his lap, straddling him right here not fifty feet from the set.

"You're mad," Richard told him sleepily. "And I'm not sure what ideas are marching through that filthy mind of yours, but you're not doing anything that is going to get me in Dutch with costumes."

"Course not," Martin sniffed. Richard slit open his eyes just in time to see Martin wrinkle his nose at the mostly burnt down cigarette. He sighed unhappily as Martin crushed it out on the ground with relish.

"I was smoking that," Richard said mildly. His hands felt rather empty without it and chose to settle themselves on Martin's hips, obviously the next best option. He was still in costume himself, a bathrobe hastily knotted over the lot of it. Disconcerting, that; method acting aside, there was something a touch odd about getting a bit of a grope from a bloke in pointy ears.

"And now you're not," Martin informed him, "Fucking filthy habit, tastes rotten. I'd kiss you right now, but the shitty ashtray taste isn't one I like."

"Also, we are fifty feet from the set," Richard pointed out. "Anyone could be walking by and see." He supposed having Martin on top of him wasn't likely to be a better option. It was difficult to protest it with Martin nearly nose to nose with him, mischief shining in his eyes. Oh, that did not bode well, it did not.

"Oooh, they could see us, they could," Martin crooned, wriggling just a touch and Richard winced at the feel of his warm backside rocking in his lap. "Give everyone a fucking eyeful."

"An eyeful of fucking is more like it. Stop," Richard tightened his grip on those hips, palming the hard curves. Beneath costume and padding lay a pert little backside, Richard knew, and he didn't need to be thinking about how it looked bare and eagerly raised. Little slut, that was Martin, and he'd claim the title without shame.

Martin only gave him a mock frown, leaning back against Richard's upraised knees as he tapped a finger against his pouting mouth, "Oh, I do like it when you talk filthy. Say fuck again, won't you. Just for me. Say fuck."

"You're mad," Richard chuckled and shook his head, strands of his long, still-unfamiliar hair catching and pulling on the tree bark.

"Say it!" Martin demanded and, Christ, he nearly bounced in Richard's lap, riding very close to the edge of a great deal of pain. "Say it! I want to hear you say fuck in the Voice."

"The voice," Richard repeated, equal parts bemused and amused.

"Yes, yes, the Voice! You're in the costume, you've got the beard and the hair, so you have to use the voice! Say fuck for me," Martin lowered his own voice, hardly the gravelly tones that Richard could achieve but a decent effort. "C'mon, I'll do something nice for you."

"Such as get out of my lap before someone sees you?"

Martin scoffed aloud, "Now that, you see, that is the opposite of nice. No, no, I promise to do something nice." Martin's smile was sharp-edged and hot, flashing a hint of tongue as he ran it over the line of his teeth. "How about I suck you off in the closet off of Costumes?"

"That sounds more like a threat," Richard managed, blinking. The very thought of it, Christ, he knew what Martin could do with that mouth, had felt it before, hot, wet suction and an all-too clever tongue, sly blue eyes peering up at him. He could imagine how it would be, leaning against the wall, his legs spread and Martin kneeling between them, his mouth working on Richard's cock. Lips spit-wet and those eyes...

"A threat!" Martin gave him an offended look. "Not at all. A threat would be sucking you off IN Costumes. Richard...." Martin all but purred it, adding a vicious little hip-wriggle to the mess. "Come on, be a good bloke. Say fuck for me."

"No," Richard whispered, glancing back at the set. He could hear people, the low rumble of chatter, of set pieces being moved. There was no one in sight though, no one close enough to hear his low groan as Martin ground down on him, that pert arse rubbing against his cock with near painful friction. "Oh, don't--"

"Don't what?" Martin asked, all that precious slyness laid out in his voice, little bastard, "Don't make you come in your costume? That'd be a job to explain, wouldn't it. Course, you could always say 'Martin made me do it', that would make everything fucking daisies, wouldn't it."

"Martin," Richard groaned, with all the throatiness that was being demanded of him.

"I for one would love to see you come in your trousers," Martin told him conversationally. "Here I am, Bilbo Baggins, the fucking Hobbit, and you are Thorin, and you'd be quite a sight, I think."

"I think you've been playing on the internet entirely too much...ah! You shit!" Richard gasped, cursing the layers of costume because Martin deserved a pinch for that little roll of the hips. He did it again, bastard, drawing out a stuttering moan and Richard gripped his hips convulsively, whispering out raggedly, "Fuck..."

Immediately, Martin stopped, even rising up a fraction on his knees so that all his weight wasn't directly on Richard's aching cock. "There, that was lovely," Martin chirped, bright as chickadee. "I'll see you in Costumes then. Or close by."

It was possible that Costumes would forgive him, although he would endure a bit of teasing for a day or two. Makeup, on the other hand, would not be nearly as lenient. Not when he rolled Martin into the fallen leaves, ignoring his startled, swearing protests as he ducked his head and took a hard kiss, biting that pouty lower lip and Martin sighed resignedly and went lax.

"If you say fuck again, I'll suck you off twice," Martin smirked up at him, and yes, Makeup was going to be furious over those swollen lips.

"You'd do it anyway," Richard grinned back, leaning in to whisper, "Fucker," into that soft mouth before stealing another kiss.

-finis-


End file.
